


The Long Goodbye

by elbereth



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doomed Timelines, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbereth/pseuds/elbereth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A similar setting to "The Time Traveler's Wife." Sherlock travels in time. The ending is known even before they meet, yet they choose to live this love. One of them knows the past, one of them knows the future, yet their deepest secret is safe from each other. Limited time, but unlimited love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [漫长的告别](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17286) by Rambler. 



> The original fic in Chinese is first published here (needs registration onto the forum):  
> http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=34513
> 
> And it has been reposted in several places, including here (no need for registration):  
> http://site.douban.com/widget/forum/6103624/discussion/43729703/
> 
> I have to be honest that I am not a native speaker of English, and have not done much creative writing in English (though English academic writing is my daily routine). I asked an American friend to beta, and thank you so much, Drea, for the help! You are so nice!  
> But dear readers, if you still encounter any mistake or inappropriate expressions when reading, please let me know!  
> All mistakes belong to me; all glorious goes to the author of this fic, Rambler!
> 
> This is a story that I myself consider to be one of the best and the most beautiful in the Chinese-speaking BBC Sherlock fandom. Yet, I am still not sure whether I have successfully translated the poetic language and atmosphere in the original fic. The language should be simple, succinct and reserved, though the emotion is largely overflowing the narration. The rhythm of the Chinese language and the one of English is very much different, as the Chinese sentences seem to be shorter and more ambiguous. Again, if I screwed it up, the fault is totally mine.
> 
> The setting of the story is similar to that of _The Time Traveller’s Wife_ , with minor differences.

Note by the original author:

1\. There are several tributes to s2e01, yet the story really has nothing to do with that episode. This is completely an AU story, even the starting date is different. In my setting the doctor comes back to London from the army in 2008. But this date is of little importance.

2\. I am really bad with titles... The title is just a clone of the book _The Long Goodbye_ , because I really love it, and because of the most famous sentence in the book. Please forgive me. _(:з」∠)_

Then, if you still think that you can bear it, then read ahead~

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

22 October, 2009 London Rain

 

A man was found dead on the bench outside the emergency room.

They found him very early in the morning. A long and dishevelled string of footprints extended from the damaged glass door to the bench; the water remaining had not completely evaporated yet. A doctor determined the time of death: half an hour before.

John looked at the people carrying the man on to the van, and out of nowhere, he yelled, “Wait.”

They temporarily stored the corpse in the refrigerator in the clinic mortuary. Probably, there would be someone looking for him to take him back.

Yet the wait lasts forever. The work of the police department is like an endless muggy rainy day, so unsurprisingly, the man was completely forgotten in the tedious and cramped pile of files.

Sometimes John thinks of the corpse in the mortuary. His clothing was common: greyish, rough and baggy. And a pair of ragged hiking shoes. As if he was trying to avoid attention.

John has been through too many deaths and tragedies. Sometimes they feel just cliché to him. But he still cannot help but remember how this man died at the end of an empty corridor in an early morning.

Nobody should die in such loneliness.

But if he had been there, he doesn't know whether the comfort would be able to compensate for the possible chaos he would bring.

Too noisy. Even one more person would make it too noisy. But without another person, it would be too lonely. There is never a win-win solution for this.

May God be with him.

 

***

 

22 November, 2009 London Sunny

 

That night, after a third whisky in his stomach, he sees the same man in the club.

The man is talking, laughing loudly. He is wearing a black shirt, tightly fit, seems to be of a luxurious style. He is red in cheeks, and with the glass in his hand, he looks as if he is dancing lively in exultation.

The deafening music and the thick warm-coloured light make him believe that it is a mistake.

The man walks across the crowd and passes him, throwing him a flirting glance.

John closes his eyes. He has never seen the man with his lips curved, nor has he seen his dance-like flirtation with the women beside him. But he recognizes the eyes.

He knows that something is wrong. But he manages to remain in his seat until he finishes his liquor, only then does he force himself up.

 

***

 

23 November, 2009 London Rain

 

He stays in the clinic until very late, until there is only him in such a big building. He locks the door to his office, disinfects the corridor, and returns the tools to the storage.

He sits beside the door for a while, looking at the glass door, perfectly repaired one month ago. Then he stands up and walks into the mortuary. He disinfects his hands according to the standard procedure, puts on a pair of medical gloves, and opens the drawer.

Exactly the same person. But he also sees the differences. The dark hair is much more dishevelled than what he saw yesterday. Curled all the same, yet it lacks trimming, and sticks together into threads. The calm expression on his face makes him appear younger than his real age, but John knows the real differences. He has a meagre and weary face, with faint scars on the chin and edge of his forehead.

He touches the icy cold skin of the corpse with his gloved fingers. The gloves are thin and tight. They magnify the touches on the fingertips by several times. The bare body of the man has no colour of blood, or he would seem just to be sleeping. A beautiful corpse. He stops prying, pushes the drawer into the wall and locks it properly.

 

***

 

26 November, 2009 London Sunny

 

He wants to see him again, so he goes to the club.

No luck.

 

***

 

24 December, 2009 London Snow

This is the second year since he’s been back from the army; the second year that he has nowhere to go to for the Christmas. He tries to ignore this fact. There are still patients in the waiting room, but the atmosphere is even duller than usual.

John turns, and goes to the consulting room for more gauze. When he comes out, the man is sitting on the bench.

Upon seeing him, the man makes a casual gesture while speaking, as if waving something off, “What is the date today?”

“I beg your pardon?” John frowns. His alertness startles the man, whose facial expression shifts, but only a bit. The man is wearing the same clothes as the first time he appeared, yet not as ragged. Nor the same pair of shoes.

“I asked for today’s date.” The man’s eyes shine brightly. He leans back on the chair, with his head rests on the back of the bench, eyes rest constantly on John’s.

“It’s Christmas Eve.” John clenches on the bunch of gauze in his hand. He finds that the man has noticed his action.

“Christmas. Boring.” The man pats on the pocket on his cargo trousers, clearly quite discontent. He waves his head from left to the right, and then narrows his eyes, as if he is killing time.

John stands still, staring at him.

“So according to my understanding, it is the year 2009.” The man says abruptly, and then raises his face. He shrugs as a futile gesture, but grows vexed the next second, raising his hand to touch his lips. “So this is it. It is the first time that you have met me.”

John walks two steps forward, closing the distance between them. The man compresses his lips and lowers his head.

“I have seen you before.” John says with cautious. Twice. He adds silently to himself.

“Perhaps. Whatever.” The man stretches his long legs, laces up his fingers at his abdomen, and finds a comfortable position on the chair. Then he lifts his face to the doctor with a practiced fake smile, “You may go for your own errands. I will sit here and wait.”

John doesn’t ask what he is waiting for. He stares at the man for about five second before he goes away. It surprises him that his heart is unexpectedly calm.

Two hours later, he stands in front of the bench where the man is lying on, curled up. His arrival blocks the brightness from the fluorescent lights, so the man wakes up. Their eyes meet.

“So. What do you know about me?” The man asks.

“Not a thing.” John tells him. It’s not strictly a lie. He tells himself.

“Yet I know you.” The man turns around. The brightness of the light makes him close his eyes again. He says without a pause, “So you don’t know my name, my profession, my…wait,” He opens his eyes abruptly; his eye has an astounding colour, “You know nothing about me, but I hope that does not lead to the conclusion that I don’t have cookies to eat today.”

John smiles a bit, “So your name is?”

“Names are boring.” The man sits up, putting on a discontent face again, “But, I know your name is John Watson.”

“It’s on my name badge.” John gestures to his chest.

“Oh.” The man stands up, which makes him immediately a lot taller than John. For a while neither of them speaks. The man is thinking. “How about this,” He smiles, “I know the shape of your scar.” He holds out his bony finger to touch John’s shoulder, delineates the invisible scar on his clothes, and stops right in front of his chest. They are so close to each other that they can clearly hear each other’s breath.

John abruptly takes a step backward; his lips compressed into a thin line. “Who are you?” He hears himself asking, “Tell me who you are.”

“I think it is already enough for you to treat me a dinner. What do you think, John?” The man bypasses him on his own, pushes open John’s office door and walks in. John has no choice but to follow him.

The man walks around the office, and then leans close, extending his fingers to take out John’s mobile phone from his left pocket, “Call for the takeaway from that Chinese restaurant. Don’t forget the fortune cookies.”

“I never get Chinese takeaway.” John grabs the phone back. “Is this another thing that you know about me?”

“Takeaway?”

“No. Where did I put my phone.”

“Oh. No. Too elementary, John. Only one glance needed. As for the takeaway,” the man takes the phone from him again, and dials a number, “then that should be a habit that I will teach you.” He raises the already connected phone to John, “So you don’t mind that I take a shower while waiting?”

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

“So what are you here for? Spending the Christmas Eve with me?” John asks when they settle down to eat.

“Do you have a better option?” The man rolls his eyes.

No, he doesn't. He volunteered for the Christmas Eve shift, while even the in-patients on the first floor have been brought home early on. Several minutes ago, he locked the clinic door, and turned off the lights in the corridor. The man used the shower in an empty patient’s room, and then walked out wrapped simply with a white bed sheet. It’s natural to assume that he is completely naked inside. They are sitting in his office, with takeaway boxes set out on the table between them.

“Are you wearing any pants?” John’s curiosity finally wins.

“No.” The man answers boldly and forcefully.

God. “Who are you? May I ask you to tell me now?”

“Why?”

“I have treated your dinner.” But to tell the truth, the man hasn't eaten much. He lost his interest in the food after only a minute, but keeps picking and poking at the fortune cookies. Now he is wrapped in a bed sheet, curling in the sofa. John sits across him on a chair, having a perfect view of the pale skin of his neck beneath the sheet.

The man suddenly cheers up, “Why don’t we play a game?”

“What kind of game?” Since the man is not eating, John puts down his barely touched food as well.

“Pick one,” The man points to the fortune cookies on the table, “I can guess the sentence in the cookie, word for word.” He leans sideways, his head propped up by a hand, looks just like an excited child.

John looks at his curly hair, “No way.”

“Let’s take wagers. If I make a successful guess, then you will obey my command and do one thing for me.” A faint smile slips across his face.

“Don’t you dare prod me,” John tilts the plate, looking at the cookies inside, “Then what if your guess is wrong?”

“Then I will let you command me to do one thing.” That smile grows wider.

“Alright. But it seems that you are disadvantaged…”

“Pick one.” The man interrupts him in a low voice.

John looks into the man’s eyes. The man looks back quietly. After a while, he picks out one jokingly and waves it at him, “All right, now tell me what it says.”

“A pumpkin is always more orange on one side than the other.”

John raises an eyebrow and takes out the note. It says, “Love prevails against everything, except poverty and toothache.”

He is surprised that he is a little surprised. “I don’t know whether it is supposed to be, but you are wrong.” He shows him the piece of paper.

The man stares at the piece of paper for a second and gazes back at him again. “Oh my god, you bastard.” He complains, staring at John, hanging his mouth open as if he is going to laugh.

“Wha…” Before he is able to react, John is pushed onto the floor.

John instinctively returns the strike, struggles with the man on the carpet, and finally pinches down his opponent with a practical manoeuvre. He feels the warmth of the body beneath the sheet. Usually the smell of disinfectant on such sheets doesn’t arouse him, but this time, he cannot take full control of himself.

“Then.” John forces his breath steady.

“Then.”

“Then you lose.” John says.

“Yes.” The man answers calmly.

“Then I will exercise my right.”

The lips of the man suppressed under him curve up. “I’m glad.” He says in a deep voice.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Making love with this man is like fighting a battle. John knows it will take some effort, but he does not plan to give up. They hug and tumble on the light grey carpet; the man pants rapidly, extorting him with full strength; their limbs clash painfully together, but neither of them pays any attention.

“Forcefully. More.” The man adjusts his position, eagerly comes forward to meet him. John wraps the man’s legs on his waist, and forcefully he crashes into that body. More.

He laces his fingers into that dark hair. They kiss desperately.

The man lies on his stomach on the sheet, covered with sweat; the other half of the sheet covers his lower body. John uses his fingers to press on the string of aged love bites on the man’s back, with their legs tangled together. The man moans beneath John’s fingers. John does not raise any question.

Early in the morning, John sticks himself on the man’s back, breathing into the nape of his neck dizzily, “Is it the time now for you to tell me your name?”

“Sherlock. Holmes.” He hears the man’s voice saying. He sounds rational and sober.

 

 

26 December, 2009 London Fog

 

The club is called “Planet.” Today the theme is Blues.

Now he knows his name. Sherlock Holmes.

The man is sitting beside the table in the corner, which makes the whole scene disturbingly unreal.

“Could I buy you a drink?” John stands at the table.

“Whatever.” The man sends him a glance and puts down the glass in his hand. “So what? As if today is the last day of the world and this is the only club in the universe—” The man seems to be slightly inebriated. John looks into his eyes and realizes at once that he doesn't know him.

John waves at the bartender. “There is no need to attribute it any special meaning.”

John sits across the man, watching him drinking. He doesn't think the man has noticed his existence. The man’s line of sight is floating for most of the time. John is not sure what other drugs he is on, so he examines his glass of wine.

“Hey! Give it back to me.” The man holds out his hand, and knocks down an empty wine glass. In the flash of arc light, the glass takes only one second to crash into pieces.

He looks so much younger than two days ago. There is no scar on his face. As like a brand new merchandize directly shipped from a mall, it can be opened, but also can be returned.

John sneers, “Someone asked me to send you a word.”

“Who?”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Huh.” The man suddenly glares at his glass, yet without any expression. “What did he say?”

“It begins.”

 

***

 

 

6 March, 2010 London Sunny

 

They are madly in love.

“It seems that there exists indeed the possibility for me to like you.” Sherlock looks up and down him with great triumph.

Arrogant asshole. “You, think thoroughly about it.”

“Tell me who you are.” Sherlock asks.

“ I've told you.” John waves Sherlock’s hand away from his chest.

“But I want to know more.”

He looks at the sparkles of pride in Sherlock’s eyes.

There has been nothing that has the ability to make Sherlock this way. Nothing.

They kiss in a dark alley; they make love in the dim light on a rainy day. They act outrageously, they take risk, they never think about consequences.

He has moved into Sherlock’s flat. John feels as if he doesn't know this Sherlock. This Sherlock is so young and aggressive, and so madly in love with him that it leaves both of them in agony. Sweet and painful agony.

 

***

 

10 March, 2010 London Sunny

 

“You told me that an experiment went wrong.” John said.

“Yes.”

“When did it start?”

“One day, as I woke up finding myself sleeping in a rubbish bin two blocks away from where I lived, I knew something was wrong.” Sherlock makes a wave by a hand, bored, “Of course that was before I realized that I was in the year 1985.”

“You jumped back to 1985?” John hangs his mouth open, not knowing whether to believe it or to laugh at it.

“Exactly. With the clothes I was wearing. Ha. I even had the perfect camouflage of being a drunk.”

“How old were you?” John persists.

“21. 22. Can’t remember. Lived in the college dorm.” Sherlock lies in his armchair, pressing the back of his hand on his forehead, as if he has a sudden revelation. “Then,” Sherlock swallows, “it started to happen more and more frequently. Later I started to rent this flat in Baker Street. Sometimes I was not able to jump back to the normal timeline for weeks.” He points to the stack of notebooks on the fireplace, “I tried to keep track of the occurrence—the frequency, the time it happened. I cannot claim that I achieved nothing, but up until now, I haven’t found much.”

John has skimmed through some records on the notebooks. He can tell the condition of the writer from his handwriting: some records were kept by a pen almost dry. They are written in cursive; even the ink colours are different. John can tell that they are written not at the same time, in the same day—or in the same year. After every several pages of messy records, there are precise calculations—written neatly in fine-point pen on the back side of the pages. Reading these notebooks makes no sense for John.

“So you have to keep them with you all the time?” John asks.

“No. I don’t do that anymore.” Sherlock turns his face away, which makes his voice coming from another direction, “You know what, I was for once very happy, extremely happy—I stood in Hyde Park, 1982, shouting and screaming. People thought that I was lunatic. I had correctly calculated the date that I was jumping into. But after that I lost one notebook. I was not able to calculate accurately again.”

They are in silence for a while. “So,” Sherlock says, “Those notebooks are just rubbish now. Do whatever you want with them.”

“So you gave up?”

“Why should I attempt to get everything clear anyway?” Sherlock sneers with sarcasm, “I want a surprise now.”

“You must have at least found out something.”

“Yes, I found out something—but what I have experienced has far exceeded what I have deduced, and much more interesting.” Sherlock shows a faint smile. “What I learned so far, are—I jump back into the past much more frequently than to the future. And for these ten years,” He pauses, “I find the rules have changed gradually and secretly. They are no longer the same as ten years ago. For example I seldom jump back to the years before 1985 now—it seems that the time spots I jump into are also progressing forward.”

“You know enough.” John doesn't know whether he is making effort to comfort him or not, “It must have been difficult.” The words go pale and weak after pronounced. He cannot imagine a life totally disrupted for ten years, nor can he imagine how he manages to grab the path of the time—he needs a map in his brain, a labyrinth—that is why Sherlock Holmes is never as easy to understand as an ordinary person. John knows, even with his eyes closed, Sherlock’s thoughts and memories are still jumping. This, and the living skills developed in a decent person under unexpected conditions, connected Sherlock with many vagabonds on London’s streets as friends, who revere Sherlock instantly at their discoveries. Vagabonds are the immobile coordinate systems in time and space; onlookers, beholders. They are the only people who find out the nature of Sherlock, beside John. They have a mutual understanding, and avoid talking about it. John smiles at this thought. Sherlock. He’s the god of vagabonds.

 

***

 

15 April, 2010 London Sunny

 

So they solve cases, go to theatres if they have time to spare, eat a lavish dinner at the best restaurants in London if they have money to spare.

At the restaurant—this is after John was kidnapped by Mycroft for another time—he asks Sherlock, “I suppose that Mycroft also knows about it?”

“He doesn't. But I do not doubt that he will know about it one day.” Sherlock answers after a thought.

“You mean…”

“I have never told him all the truth. But I guess he must have discovered something. There is this one thing that I haven’t told you—”

“I am sure that you keep many things from me.” John laughs. He stirs the food in his plate with his fork. “Oh god, we have too much to make up, don’t we?”

“Oh,” Sherlock squeezes his eyes, “When I was 23—that year, I jumped to an unknown place. This happened. Then I knew that I had jumped into the future again. I stumbled boldly along the street—I guess I was still high on drugs—trying to find a club to stay for a night, but then, a black limousine passed by me and picked me up right from the street. The rest is left for your imagination.”

“Mycroft knew that you would be there.”

“Yes. And it was also possible that he saw me from the CCTVs. I didn't know then that he was going to occupy such a high position in the British government. The fact tells me that he would be in a high position from the age of forty and would remain there—only the moment I saw him did I realize how far I had jumped. He was an old man then. I satirized him, congratulated him with irony for his success in his officialdom, satirizing that his image had turned out to be far better than my imagination. He didn't say much. Yet I knew he will have known everything. The things I had told him, and those I hadn't. I don’t know the cause. If it had been I, I absolutely would never tell him those things.”

“Probably something happens later that reveals them to him.” John says, “Or perhaps you stop taking everything so seriously and stops playing a child with him?”

“Never.” Sherlock rejects forcefully with full confidence.

They keep working on their plates. After a long while, so long that John assumes that this topic is over, Sherlock suddenly speaks again, “He was sad.”

And they pretend that this sentence has never existed.

 

***

 

7 October, 2010 London Cloudy

 

Sometimes Sherlock disappears from Baker Street for a while. In most cases, he comes back in a good mood, sometimes a bit weary though. The strange thing is that John seems to play a role of sedative to Sherlock’s time jumping. Sherlock abstains from drugs under John’s pressure. It also seems to have a beneficial influence on the jump length and frequency. The frequency decreased. Even if the jumps happen, most of them are small-scaled, several days forward or backward; it makes Sherlock’s life somewhat less dramatic than his previous one.

He begins to eat regularly under John’s command and starts to gain some acceptable weight in consequence.

They argued about the influence of mental and physical condition on time jumping. But it belongs only to small talks in leisure times, because this question really is not that urgent for them now. Sherlock returns directly to their flat in Baker Street after time jumping. John never asks whether he is the Sherlock who just left the flat, or the one that disappeared a couple of days ago, or the one from several days ahead.

But those embarrassing situations also happen—sometimes John just made a big meal at lunch time, but Sherlock entered and started to hold his stomach, complaining that he had just finished the cod John would cook three days later, and there was no room for anything else. Then John would know about what they would eat three days later. Just this information—and that’s all. They do not tell each other about the past or the future on purpose. As if 221B is a stationary courier station. Time disappears here, stops, never included into consideration.

This morning, Sherlock is still sleeping upstairs. John is preparing for breakfast for both of them alone in the living room on the first floor. When he hears the footsteps from the stairs, he enters the living room with a glass of milk in his hand, and finds a tired Sherlock collapsed on the couch. They don’t talk much. He brings food for Sherlock, who falls asleep immediately after finishing the plate.

John sits there for a while, keeping still as usual. Sherlock never cares about being watched by John when sleeping. He is just like a machine—which has his rule for every conduct. After a moment, John goes upstairs to check the other Sherlock. But when he is back downstairs, the Sherlock lying on the couch has already disappeared. One hour later, Sherlock comes downstairs. He sees the remaining empty plate on the kitchen table, but does not make any comment.

According to this, John infers: that Sherlock was temporally before this Sherlock; he came from the past, so this Sherlock knows about it.

Such thing never happens again. He feels that Sherlock is avoiding meeting himself from another time. Even if he did, John never knows about it.

They love each other dearly.

 

***

 

15 September, 2011 London Cloudy

 

“What’s this?” Sherlock asks John with a piece of paper in his hand.

John raises his face from the newspaper, and answers without mentioning the critical portion, “The lease for my old flat.”

“I know exactly what it is.” Sherlock interrupts him. “You know what I am asking.”

John puts down his newspaper. “Just don’t, Sherlock.” He has no intention in continuing this conversation.

But Sherlock obviously does not want to give up. “I know what is going on. If we judge it by the time, he comes back more often, doesn't he?” He closes his mouth, but it isn't sufficient to cover all the anger in his voice.

John covers his eyes. “You know about everything and why do you still come to interrogate me? Please don’t tell me that you are jealous of yourself!”

“Yes. Yes. I am surly jealous of myself.”

“God, I knew this would happen one day.” John throws the newspaper away, and tries to snatch the lease back. “Yes, I did pay another three months’ rent to the flat I lived in. You know, there is no way that I can let that you sleep on the street!”

“Don’t forget, he has his own John in the future. You don’t have the responsibility to accompany him.”

“Sherlock—this is ridiculous, you—that’s you yourself! Are you suggesting that I am cheating you in this occasion…”

“You know what? In the past, I would never try to make any contact with people in the normal timeline, whether I am jumping forward or backward.”

“Why not? Sherlock?” John asks, “You know, I clearly don’t mind.”

“That’s just wrong!” Sherlock snaps.

John turns around and leaves. For him, this conversation is over.

 

 

***

 

 

1 October, 2011 London Rain

 

“You know, you shouldn't have been here.” Sherlock plays with John’s fingers. They stick to each other closely on the bed in John’s flat, naked. The curtain is closed. It has rained for a very long time, and the always dark sky has lost the ability to tell the time.

“I want to be here. And don’t you feel it a little bit too late to ask me to go?” John says absentmindedly.

Every time, this Sherlock pays close attention not to leave any scratches or bites on John’s body. But John leaves all kinds of love bites on Sherlock’s body. Sherlock loves them. John judges the timeline of Sherlock according to the position and recovery state of the love bites—if the number decreases suddenly, he would love to press several new on him.

Sherlock chuckles for a second behind him, sounding especially happy. “Thank you.”

“Don’t say that. I’m still I, and you are the same you. Isn't it?” John turns his face to look at Sherlock, trying to get his answer.

“Hmmm… to a degree.” Sherlock nods. “I know exactly how much he resents you coming here to stay with me.”

“Ha,” John lets out a bitter laugh, “You, both of you, are bastards.”

Then they laugh together. Sherlock holds on to John so tightly that as if he would lose him forever once he releases his arms. John closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of their breath gradually speeding up.

“You started smoking again.” John points to the ashtray on the night stand.

“Yes. Too bad.” Sherlock does not deny it. He grabs John’s shoulder for a kiss. There is a hint of bitterness in the taste of tobacco.

“Something bad happens in the future, doesn't it? Don’t tell me no.”

Sherlock doesn't reply, just kisses him, harder. This Sherlock is so very different from his own Sherlock; his love so slow and deep, melancholy and quiet, distinctive from his Sherlock. God, what he is talking about. His Sherlock, both of them are his Sherlock.

Sometimes, he would be trapped in a rainy day, like this one.

 

***

 

26 November, 2011 London Sunny

 

One Sherlock is running towards him—he is close—John recognizes that he is the future one—he holds John up in his arms, until John’s feet nearly leave the ground.

“What, what?” John makes a large effort to break loose, and laughs unbelievably at Sherlock. People passing by are all looking at them.

Sherlock says nothing, but just stares into John’s eyes. He moves closer in the cold wind, and carefully he presses a kiss on John’s lips.

John returns the kiss with a silent inquiry. They hold each other in their arms, like a statue.

“I had a dream about you.” Sherlock murmurs. “I had a dream that lasts forever. I walked a long way from very far away and back here finally.”

“Well, what did I do, in the dream?”

Sherlock pauses for a long time. John can feel him trembling. As if a cold is piercing deeply into his bones.

“You asked me to kiss you.”

John looks at Sherlock in the eyes. “That was a good thing, wasn't it?”

“Don’t go back to Baker Street. Please. John. Stay with me.” This is everything that Sherlock says.

“All right. All right.” He holds Sherlock close without a question. He never need any reason, never need any explanation--

He does not return to Baker Street that night. With Sherlock, he makes love for a whole night in that room of theirs. Sherlock buries his head beside his neck and weeps when climax hits him. In those extremely restrained ice-blue eyes, there is nothing.

Or perhaps everything was just his auditory hallucination.

The request of that day never happens for a second time.

 

 

***

 

24 December, 2011 London Heavy Snow

 

He is eating Chinese takeaway as lunch with the future Sherlock in his consulting room. They have started to meet in his office. John tries never to refuse such visits, because he is clear that he loves such company, because sometimes he has the feeling: this Sherlock needs him more.

But he doesn't make this question bother himself for long. After all they are the same person for him. And he loves him.

“I guess this is our anniversary in some sense.” John says with a smile.

“Is it?” Sherlock asks.

John freezes for a second, and then understands. He shakes his head, “Nothing. It’s just…there had to be a time that I met you for the first time.”

“I know that. I kept guessing when it would be.” Sherlock said.

“You could have asked directly. Do I never tell you? Oh, I mean, the future I.”

The Sherlock sitting in front of him shakes his head, his face growing gloomy. He quickly stuffs something into his mouth, trying to cover up. “He, no, you mentioned that for once. But not the way it happened.”

“Then I will leave you some surprise.” John stares at him.

Sherlock’s eyes light up for a second. He touches John’s leg beneath the table. “I come from a summer. I was not anticipating catching Christmas this time.”

“If you wish, I would stay here with you.” John suggests, after a while.

Sherlock pauses observably at hearing this sentence, “Why?” He eventually raises his head.

“Nothing particular. Just offering you some more options.” John has an uneasy feeling. He recalls the eyes of Sherlock on that day: void of anything.

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock lowers his head, “Really. It was an accident that day. I’m fine now. You don’t have to spare time with me on purpose.”

John stares him for a while, “No, you are not. You just won’t tell me what happens in the future, will you.”

“Just like you never tell me what happened in the past.”

“Is this an eye for an eye, Sherlock?”

“So be it.”

“Aha. So, you still haven’t changed at all anyway.” Discovering a trace of his familiar Sherlock in this one, is to him a re-encounter with some long lost warmth. He hasn't even realized that he has been missing it. He cannot explain it by himself, but his heart sinks deeper.

“I don’t care about what you say. I have decided. I am staying here together with you.” It is time for him to go back to work. John stands up and walks towards the door.

“You are not.” Sherlock suddenly says.

“What?” John looks back.

“You are not. Because I know you didn't. I remember clearly that I spent this Christmas together with you.” Sherlock smiles a smile that does not reach his eye corners, “And I enjoy that memory, very much. Please.”

John stands still; his words fail him. He nods a little and walks out. When John is back after a moment, the waiting room where Sherlock was sitting is already empty. He has been back.

That evening, before he leaves, he puts on his coat, and stops outside the mortuary. He does not turn on the light. After walking in the darkness, directly to the refrigerator that he is able to recognize even in a dream, he places his hand on the cold handle.

He does not open the drawer from the refrigerator after all. As if it would make all dreams and nightmares vanish in a breath of wind. As if it would make the reality fall apart into pieces.

Sherlock was right: their deepest secrets are always safe from each other.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

This night, in the warm bedroom of Baker Street, he has extremely mad sex with Sherlock. When it ends, they speechlessly stare at each other.

“Tell me that this is a good Christmas.” John says looking at Sherlock, who is still panting, face blushed.

“This is a FABULOUS Christmas.” Sherlock grins widely, accentuating intentionally.

“Very well.” John says, “I love you.” He picks up the Christmas reindeer antlers that fell from Sherlock’s head when they started making love, places them on the curls of Sherlock’s head, and carefully adjusts the position. “You know what? The first time I saw you, you did one thing that made me believe you immediately.”

“Oh? What is it?” Sherlock pretends that he doesn't care, but John feels that his body goes tense immediately: he is clearly paying more attention. They seldom talk about their first encounter.

“You were right about the note in a fortune cookie. I think I’d have to give you the answer for your future use.” John lets out a silent smile.

“Like a secret signal, isn't it?” Sherlock grows excited immediately.

“Yes, like a secret signal,” John forces back his laughter at the sight.

“Then tell me what it is.” Sherlock says, as if eager to have a try.

“Hmmm…I forgot,” John pretends to be forcing the memory, “I’m afraid I have only the main idea now.”

“Think, John!” Sherlock grabs him and shouts, “This is important!”

John pretends to be thinking for another while. “I think it has something to do with pumpkins.” He is almost unable to suppress his laughter.

“Pumpkins?” Sherlock grabs John’s arm tightly, “I can’t believe that you have forgotten about it!”

“Wait, wait, I do remember,” John breaks free from Sherlock’s grab, “Right, memorize this sentence, word by word: A pumpkin is always more orange on one side than the other.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock looks at him with wide eyes.

“I am absolutely sure. Now, it is your turn to keep that in mind. I am sleeping.” He turns his back to Sherlock. Another question from Sherlock will make him give himself away.

“It’s in my mind.” He hears Sherlock’s serious voice saying.

“Don’t get even a word mistaken.” He remembers warning Sherlock just before he falls into sleep.

 

***

 

20 March, 2012 London Sunny

 

“I hate to go.” Sherlock says suddenly.

John raises his head, a bit surprised.

“I hate to go. I want to stay here forever, with you, of this hour. Both of us being the us of this hour.”

“Like two muffins taken out of the oven at the same time?” John rolls his eyes.

“Humph,” Sherlock makes a face, “Like two muffins taken out of the oven at the same time. Displayed on the shelf together, bought home together, eaten together. Not a…bizarre muffin that constantly sent back to the oven again, shifting between freshness and staleness continuously.”

“Oh, nothing can be done about it. Your oven is a time machine,” John continues with his newspaper.

“But you can still agree to wait until we can be eaten together, right?”

John raises his head again at the fidgeting Sherlock. And he pronounces a simple “Yes.”

“What do you know about it?” Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“What makes you think of such things.” God knows why he answers in this way. Sometimes he wants to talk about this with Sherlock, more than anything. But perhaps not now.

 

***

 

23 September, 2013 London Rain

 

He stands behind the door, with the little notebook he found in Sherlock’s pocket.

“When did you start to keep records of these dates again?” They just made love. Sherlock is lying in the flat John rents when he is startled by John’s sudden acquisition.

“I’m sorry, sorry, I…” Sherlock struggles up and mumbles, holding out a hand to take back the notebook. Then he suddenly sobers up and immediately changes his attitude, vexed totally, “I don’t think you can touch my things without my permission. Give that back to me, John Watson.”

John freezes for a bit. Sherlock seizes the chance and snatches the notebook back. Yet he has no place to put it, so he sits back on the bed with bed cloth wrapped around, clinging to it.

“I know there is something wrong with you, Sherlock.” John snaps immediately when he’s back to himself, “I knew it the moment I saw you. I have wanted to ask you for a whole day. Are you going to tell me or not? No, you don’t, obviously, because you never tell me any-fucking-thing.”

Sherlock sighs, “John…”

“I cannot bear it anymore. Tell me. Sherlock, I’m serious. Tell me now, or leave.”

“John, calm down, all right? I will tell you, I will.” Sherlock sits up, holding out his arms to him.

“Right now. Now and here. I will not let you escape again.” John stands still, breathing deeply. He is completely clear about how cruel he is. But this is the only option. The only way.

It has been quite a while when Sherlock slowly opens his mouth again, “You know, I discovered long time ago, that with the normal time develops, the time spots I jump into gradually move forward in consequence.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Fluctuation and small-scale jumps of only several days happen all year round, with irregularities occur from time to time. But as a whole, those dates keep progressing forward. For example, for now, you seldom see the I before the year 2018. Is that right?” He is raising a question. But the question does not sound like an inquiry, but a quiet conversation with him himself.

John slightly nods, “Yes, I've noticed that.”

“But I discovered, if I use drugs, I would temporarily break this time jumping rule and make the arrival spots earlier.” He notices John’s face and adds at once, “I promise, John, I promise you. I am careful. Those drugs are safe.”

“Nonsense, Sherlock. I know you. I know what kind of person you are.” John is almost unable to finish the sentence. He walks towards Sherlock and grabs a handful of his hair; his voice goes coarse, “What happens? What happens that you are so determined to jump back, huh? I’m dead? We break up? Could you just behave yourself once for me…”

He is not able to end that sentence for Sherlock suddenly grabs him close, “John, stop. Stop it. If you really want to know, you never thought of…or will think of leaving me.”

“So I’m dead then.” John says apathetically.

Sherlock goes stiff around him, his face buried in John’s neck. Such intimacy makes John tremble deep from his bones. “John, I am thinking, if I do not tell you what happens in the future, and then that future would probably still be changeable.”

John caresses Sherlock’s back lightly, attempting to calm him down. The truth is not a far call from his previous deduction, but he wants more details, for it is at least not a bad thing to know more.

Sherlock backs up suddenly, looking straight into his eyes, and says meticulously, “When it is time—you will know what I mean—for whatever reason, don’t go find me in the storage houses of Ickenham.”

“Why?” John asks.

Sherlock does not answer. “Promise me.” He mumbles. “Remember this place.”

 

***

 

6 June, 2014 London Cloudy

 

“How’s Mycroft?” John asks Sherlock. This is the Sherlock of the normal timeline—they are sitting in front of the fireplace in 221B, Sherlock is throwing mouldy tobacco leaves into the fire one by one. Sherlock is just back from three years later, and he has been silent yet.

“If you see the Mycroft in the far future again, could you send a word for me? You ask him to take good care of you then. I don’t think the future you are in an ideal state,” John points out absentmindedly. Then he feels Sherlock shake almost imperceptibly, before he realizes what he has just said.

Sherlock has already been staring at him straight, “You know something that I don’t. Don’t you?”

Too much. John thinks. You don’t know that your icy corpse is lying at a place. “Not much.” He answers lightly.

Sherlock glares at John, “Will you tell me?”

“Maybe. But not now.”

Sherlock makes a noise with his nose, “Why don’t you just speak with the current Mycroft?” He asks in an acerbic tone.

“Would you like me to put everything on the table to Mycroft?”

Sherlock does not make a sound, then, “If you feel necessary.”

“All right. I will keep that in mind.”

They go to sleep in each other’s arms that night. John can’t help but wonder how many more times are left for them to meet each other.

 

 

***

 

 

1 November, 2014 London Cloudy

 

“You want me to dry your hair for you?”

“Of course.”

John kisses Sherlock on his cheeks and lips, still wet from the bath. Sherlock sits on the couch, leaning his head meekly on John’s laps.

The warmth of the drier and the touch of John’s fingers let out a satisfied moan from Sherlock. The TV is screening a documentary on sea birds, with the sound switched to the minimum. The room is quiet, with only the cracking of fire in the fireplace. Sherlock’s hair has a cold touch; John often likes to play with it. Before long Sherlock gets restless in John’s hug, moves the hair drier away and starts to kiss him on his neck and chest, gesturing him to take off his jumper.

John’s hands spread open Sherlock’s dressing gown, nothing inside—perfect. He strips off his own clothes rapidly. Sherlock stares at him in fascination—He reaches out his hand to spread Sherlock’s legs, nibbles at the sensitive spots at the end of his legs, satisfied to see Sherlock cannot help but let out a cry through his bitten lips, his voice trembling.

“You have prepared yourself for me, haven’t you?”

Sherlock nods instantly, “Cannot be more prepared.” His breath speeds up as John approaches him; the same when John reaches out a hand to open him up—Good, good. Just like this.

They make love like endangered animals, offering each other warmth and comfort, on the couch in 221B, in their warm home and lair, every time—

Sometimes, there are such moments in 221B.

Two hours later, when John caresses across Sherlock’s back with a hand, he thinks of the first time that he had sex with this man. In some aspect that event has not happened yet. He smiles a bit. He knows it is ridiculous, but he still feels somewhat envious of that himself. Sherlock is stepping towards that time spot without any hesitation, but he has completed his own role in it, a long time ago.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock clears his throat, his voice still coarse.

He grins. Who can claim that those endless journeys in the dark lead not to this moment?

“Nothing. It just reminded me of you.” He says.

 

 

***

 

Epilogue

 

17 August, 2015 London Rain

 

For John, time is a closed circle. He finally knows how this circle is completed.

He knows his blood will not leave a trace on the ground the moment that bullet hits him. The rain will wash out everything.

He sees Sherlock running towards him. He has saved Sherlock. Moriarty is dead. Sherlock will live on. Sherlock will live on and find him again and again in the river of time. He doesn’t know whether he is too selfish or not.

When he sees the desperate face of Sherlock, he believes that he is. “Don’t worry.” He smiles, no, he is not selfish anyway, “You will see me very soon.”

“You knew it, you knew it all this time. How could you…” Sherlock’s fingers are pressing on his bleeding artery hard, but John feels no pain. “How dare you…”

The rain muffles everything, including Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock is indeed outstandingly clever. But Sherlock’s life is in danger; he would never risk Sherlock’s life so lightly.

He remembered the address that Sherlock had asked him not to go. But at the last moment he discovered just in time, that it was a lie. Sherlock was at the opposite end of the London city.

A lie that tried to lure him out of the danger.

“Kiss me.” John says.

He feels that Sherlock kisses him, kneeling in the rain, and blood.

He knows that he has understood everything that he wants to say.

 

***

 

20 July, 2015 London Sunny

 

They are lying on the roof, watching the flock of birds in a far distance forming into a line.

“Every time. They are never able to leave here.” Sherlock says, fingers gathered together to form a steep. A very familiar gesture to John. This is a habit shared by all the Sherlocks, whether he is from the past or the future.

“London is good enough. It is a fantastic city.” John replies.

“If you are tired of London, then you are tired of the life itself. I know that.” Sherlock says.

John catches the sight of the traces of hypodermic injection on Sherlock’s forearm. He turns his face away, “I don’t have much time left, do I?”

Sherlock doesn't answer.

John takes this as a silent acknowledgment, “You know, you have so much time to say goodbye to me. Why do you still hold on to it so reluctantly? It is probably the time to let go.”

Sherlock stubbornly reaches out his hand for John’s, and takes it tightly. They spend a long time on the roof, belonging completely to the each other of this hour. The hidden anxiety of separation is in the air, yet somewhere in time, they are still meeting each other, again and again. They are so in love, but so silently without a word. Just like two ordinary people killing time in an ordinary afternoon. Just like the kings of the world.

 

\--“You know, the ending of a story is not at all important. The only thing that life promises us is death. Therefore we had better never let the ending steal the splendour of the story.”

 

~END~


End file.
